Hidden Hurts
by bewinsome
Summary: Fill for a anon prompt on the sherlock kink meme: John is kidnapped and tortured by a criminal group. After his seemingly random release, he attempts to hide his injuries from Sherlock.
1. Ch 1: No Luck At All

John just didn't have any luck when it came to the criminal underworld. This was the third time he had been kidnapped in as many months and all for his association with Sherlock Holmes. All he had wanted was a cheap flat, what he got was a cheap flat and a lot of damn trouble. Currently he was trussed up in a derelict building somewhere south of the river, most like in Nine Elms (living with Holmes had improved his sense of direction). The grinding and screeching of industrial repair was also something of a giveaway.

Sherlock hadn't taken a case in at least a week so John wasn't entirely sure what this particular lot of ingenious hoods were after. Annoyed at having lost the shopping in the process of getting dropped in the middle of Baker Street he swore for the hundredth time to brush up on his surveillance skills. They had tied him up and dumped him on the concrete floor of the warehouse at least an hour ago and his injured shoulder was starting to protest to the contortion and the damp. He had managed to loosen the binding on his feet by working the rope against the lace hooks on his boots but his hands were going to be a bit more difficult.

When the first of his kidnapper's walked in, he tossed a small duffle bag on the floor. The clanging, metal sound it made as it hit the concrete was not promising.

"Hello Dr. Watson. Feeling alright?"

"Fine, thanks. Don't suppose you could let me stretch my arms?"

The man smirked. His face was ill lit in the dingy room but John could make out the square shape of it and the indent of a rather nasty scar sunk into his cheek.

"Just relax doctor, I'm only looking for a little information. Cooperate and you'll be out of here right quick." The man turned his back to John and nudged the black bag with his heavy boot. "Of course, I _certainly_ won't mind if you don't cooperate."

John didn't respond. He set his face into a blank mask and tried to ignore the churning in his stomach.

"So, let's start shall we? Easy questions first. You were in the army?"

John nodded sharply.

"Right, so how is that an army doctor ends up as an assistant consulting detective? Not a typical leap for most lads."

"And your question is?"

"My question, doctor, is how well do you know Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

"Well enough."

"So if I were to ask you whether or not he was currently in the flat, you would say?"

"Don't know."

The man moved forward and placed his foot on top of John's left shoulder.

"Care to reconsider?"

"No."

He started applying pressure to the shoulder, easing forward until John shouted out in pain. With a sigh, the man stood back.

"Loyal army boy, eh? Don't worry, we'll quit you of that."


	2. Ch 2: Slow Time

AN: Hello children, I'm so sorry this has been a long time in coming. I'm even more sorry that it's short *beats head on desk* I swear to god I am the most unproductive person on the planet. Admittedly, I have been absurdly busy but that's really no excuse. Feel free to hate me. As always, I do not own the wonderful John Watson or any of his fellow characters. All rights to the BBC, etc. *luff

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Two hours. Two hours since John had left the flat. Two hours of personalized hell in an abandoned warehouse on the Thames. "James," as the man had referred to himself at some point, had stripped John of his jumper and shirt early on and gone to work on his war wounds. An ice pick was currently jammed into the bullet hole in his shoulder and John was doing his best to ignore it by focusing on the sting of the shallow slices on his abdomen.

"You're dedicated to your friend, Dr. Watson. But surely you must be tired of this. I only want a little information about Mr. Holmes' habits." He reached forward and waggled the ice pick a bit.

As true to form as he had been for the past hour, John said nothing, only concentrated on keeping his breathing even and not passing out, as that only ever encouraged these types. He had attempted to make an escape early on in their encounter by kicking out at the man's knee when he had bent over. But it had failed miserably as the man only managed to collapse on top of him, and then had hammered a fist into his side for his trouble. His lower ribs were still creaking with the effort of expansion.

The man sighed and looked at his watch for the third time since their duet of pain and silence had started. Clearly, he had better things to be getting on with, which John assumed meant he wouldn't be among the living much longer. Frantically, his mind circled back to the wild escape plans and the possibilities of miraculous rescue that occupied what thoughts he could gather, but not once had the man's next word's crossed his mind.

"Well my brave soldier, I'm afraid we're out of time for today. Damn shame you're so stubborn; makes you rather useless. I suppose we'll just have to give up on you. For now at least." Turning towards the door he yelled, "Boys! Come on let's get this lump back on the street."

What in all of the great bleeding depths of hell… John almost asked the man if he had somehow suffered a brain injury in the course of the interrogation but didn't get the chance as two more men entered the room and promptly started yanking the stray instruments out of his skin and manhandling him back into his undershirt and now rather filthy jumper. At this rate he'd simply die of shock. Fuck torture, they'd clearly progressed to mind games of a unique level.

Next thing John knew he was stumbling along the pavement after being bodily tossed from a car. People were giving him odd looks but he couldn't really garner the energy to care at the moment. He needed to make sure Sherlock was safe. Of course if Sherlock was safe that meant he would have time to figure this out and shut it down before they got to him. After all, Sherlock would merely be annoyed at the fact that he'd managed to get himself kidnapped and being stalked was nothing new. So, clean up first then on to the flat, no reason to advertise.

Since they had the courtesy of returning his wallet to him, John caught the tube north. He tried to ignore the pain by running through as many details about the men and their car as possible. Every detail could be infinitely useful, even if he wasn't quite as astute as Sherlock. He got off three stops early because he realized that people were now staring at him due to the fact that the wound in his shoulder had started to bleed through his jumper. When he cleared the exit he made for Sarah's flat. She should still be at the surgery and he could use her shower without and abundance of unnecessary questions before returning to Baker Street.


	3. Ch 3: Painful Revelations

AN: Huzzah! Update! Please enjoy the further adventures of John's silliness. Sherlock is property of the BBC, but I still enjoy watching him dance... _

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John checked the cuffs of his jacket one more time. Thankfully, Sarah had let him leave a set of clothes at her flat after that last fiasco with his and Sherlock's place getting half blown out. He felt a bit bad for using Sarah as a back up safe house but it meant he was always ready even when Sherlock was being particularly obstinate about a case. Now it was his turn to be obstinate. There were no visible marks to give away the beating he had just taken and he was sure he was patched enough to last until he could get into the surgery tomorrow and nick some more useful medical paraphernalia. And if it wasn't, well, he had more pressing matters.

When he arrived at Baker Street he found Sherlock slouched down in his chair, fingers steepled against his chin.

"Alright then?" John asked, as he ducked in the kitchen.

"Mmm."

"'Fraid I didn't get the shopping. Damn card still wont work. I went by the bank but I won't get a new one 'til next week. Think Mrs. Hudson will spot us for it?"

"Mmm."

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's lack of input as he quietly inspected Sherlock's current experiments for anything useful to his current endeavors. He finally decided it was best to leave the idea behind when he opened one vial and nearly passed out from the smell. Instead he made for his room with the intention of acquiring his Browning. Getting out of the flat without Sherlock noticing that particular piece of equipment was going to be the tricky part.

Sherlock was bound to notice the gun no matter where he put it so he opted for the obvious instead. He tucked the gun into his waistband and straightened his jacket over it. If Sherlock asked, he was headed to the Army shooting range, never mind that he had gone once already this month. Satisfied with the result John took a deep breath and went back down stairs.

"I'm off out, Sherlock. I'll check with Mrs. Hudson about the shopping."

He was almost out the door when Sherlock's baritone drifted up from the depths of his leather chair.

"You know, it's one thing if you didn't get the shopping. But to get it, then not come back with it, _and_ lie about it, that's rather interesting."

Fuck, what had he missed? John slowly turned on the spot so he was facing Sherlock.

"Sorry?"

"Your shoes, John. There's flour on them."

John stared at his own shoes, more than a bit irritated at his own stupidity.

"Then of course there's the matter of the clothes you're wearing. Definitely not a set I've seen in a while so that mean's you've been to Sarah's flat. But what for? She's at work, and you clearly haven't had sex recently."

"Oi!" John tried to keep the blush out of his face, "It's not particularly your business; I just needed to change."

"Needed?"

Just keep digging John, just keep digging.

Sherlock was leaning forward in his chair now slowly inspecting John from top to toe.

"And the gun? Do you _need_ that as well?"

"Erm, look, Sherlock, I just..." John shifted uncomfortably, he knew his lie wasn't going to work now.

The lanky detective pushed up from his chair and in three strides was towering over John.

"So why all the cover up, John? I'll admit I almost didn't notice. You're getting better," Sherlock nearly smirked, "But still, something's a bit off…"

Sherlock reached out and tugged down the zip on John's coat. It swung open to reveal the grey jumper he had pulled on. Very carefully, Sherlock extended his first two fingers and pressed lightly under the collarbone on John's left side. He couldn't stop the gasp or the convulsive wince the touch caused.

The detective eyed his flatmate with equal amounts surprise and suspiscion. "Take it off."

"What? Sherl-"

"Take it off. Now."

Resigned to the fact that he wasn't going to get out of this situation without a fight, one he simply didn't have the energy for, John braced himself as he shrugged out of his coat and began working the jumper up his torso. Bloody hell, it had been infinitely easier to get it on. Suddenly the jumper slipped the rest of the way over his head and he was left staring at Sherlock still holding his arms up in the air like some crook caught unawares. Sherlock's eyes drifted down John's chest, his face stoic. Lowering his arms, John looked down himself. The blood was weeping through the white shirt in small patches. It almost looked like paint splatter. When he looked up again, his head nearly hit Sherlock's he was standing so close, his eyes boring into John's.

"What happened?" Sherlock's voice was barely a whisper.

John shook his head his breathing shallow as Sherlock's fingers brushed down the front of his shirt then started to lift the hem. The ruined white knit soon joined his jumper on the floor.

"Sherlock, it's fine. I'll get some supplies from the surgery tomorrow but right now I need to back track and see if they left anything behind."

"No."

Sherlock reached up as if to touch John's bound shoulder but he stopped just shy, his hand shaking ever so slightly.

"Sherlock, really, it's fine."

"No, it's not! John, you're a doctor how can you not see how bad this is? My God."

The tremors were moving through Sherlock's whole body now. Look of disgust still etched on his narrow features, Sherlock strode from the room. John fidgeted a bit, unsure what Sherlock was doing and briefly considered scooping up his clothes and sneaking out, but Sherlock reappeared with a large bath towel, which he wrapped firmly around John's shoulder's before steering him out of the house. Sherlock didn't say one word between their door and St. Bart's.


	4. Ch 4: The Final Step Forward

AN: Ta-da! Here we are the final chapter :-) I hope you have enjoyed this story and I look forward to writing more. All rights to the BBC and the beautiful Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

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The entire time the hospital doctor was cleaning, stitching and re-bandaging, Sherlock was on his phone texting furiously. It had taken a bit of power leveraging on John's part but he had convinced the doctor not to call in the police for what were clearly marks of torture, or at very least abuse. But appealing doctor to doctor and discretely dropping the words "consulting" and "Ministry of Defense" managed to produce enough influence. When he left, John was sitting shirtless on the examination table and Sherlock was staring at him.

"Umm…"

Sherlock rose from his seat and moved toward the table. Delicately, he began inspecting the fresh bandages.

"Mycroft has rooted out our little problem."

"But!"

"Shut up. I do not appreciate having to ask my brother for favors but you didn't leave me much choice. Six men have been apprehended. Does that match your own numbers?"

"Yes, but-"

"Just answer the questions, John." Sherlock's long fingers were now tracing the outline of the large white pad covering the jagged hole in John's shoulder.

"You were gone for approximately two and a half hours. Remove at least half an hour for you walking to the shops and then making your way back to the flat after they were done with you. Two hours of torture, then?"

"One. They just kept me tied up for the first."

"Mmm. And you deemed these events unworthy my attention. Decided to branch out and do a little investigating of your own even after these thugs had already manhandled you once? Didn't think any assistance was called for?"

"No, I mean I didn't think-"

"No, you didn't _think_. Do you know," Sherlock lowered his hands to his sides and seemed to be holding himself very carefully, "I notice when you're away?"

"Wh- sorry?"

"Yes. I notice when you're not there, in the flat, particularly when you should be. I do," Sherlock paused seeming to shuffle through words in his head, "get concerned John, but I assume that you, being the consummate military gentlemen, a man who has saved my life more than once, are perfectly cable of taking care of yourself. And I don't think I'm wrong in this assessment. However, perhaps we should discuss how much I rely on you."

John shifted uncomfortably on the table. He wasn't quite following Sherlock and his skin was starting to chill. Sherlock was clearly pissed about the situation, but John wasn't sure what exactly the problem was yet.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm sorry for not telling you, but I didn't see any reason to involve you. They," John swallowed, "they just wanted information on you. I thought it would be best to shut them down before they got near you. Besides, after what they did to me, I didn't want to let them get to you particularly since their interest was so keen."

Sherlock was staring at John, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"So," Sherlock took a steadying breath, "in an attempt to shield me you chose to ignore your injuries and go looking for more?"

"Well no, I was hoping to avoid that actually, but I didn't want them attacking you."

"John, do you really think I need to be protected from these halfwits?"

"Thanks, Sherlock." John was rather nonplussed at the implications of that statement.

"No, you're right, that was wrong. Dammit. What am I supposed to think? I can't –" Here Sherlock cut himself off apparently too agitated to continue.

John, made a hesitant attempt at consolation.

"I am sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean to make you worry. But, I am capable of taking care of my self." Here Sherlock arched an eyebrow that said '_clearly_' with as much sarcasm as that statement deserved.

John sighed.

"I want to protect you. You get so wrapped up in cases and sometimes you forget the danger and I know it's part of what drives you. But, I want to keep you safe Sherlock. Because despite it all, you're my friend."

John watched uneasily as Sherlock worked his jaw, shockingly unable to find words. Finally he bowed his head, looking up at John through his bangs.

"And what am I supposed to do?" he asked quietly, "Let you run about getting slashed up? This is not _easy_ for me John. Especially when I'm not there to lend you my intellect and insure that you are also protected."

John smiled sadly to himself. Watching Sherlock struggle with emotion was not pleasant but somehow endearing. He reached out gently and took Sherlock's hand.

"It's ok to care, Sherlock. I promise to keep you apprised of any more trouble I come across. But, you have to at least make an attempt to do the same."

Now, Sherlock looked up at John eyes thoughtful, then he nodded once swiftly and in a move so quick it almost surprised John into jumping off the table he leaned in placed feather kiss on his forehead and then swept out of the room, coat, as ever, flaring behind him.

John sat for a while on the examination table, all thought of cold and discomfort flown from his mind. So, Sherlock was starting to find his connection with humanity. John smirked. He could work with that. He could _definitely_ work with that.

Hoping down from the table he snatched up the scrubs lying on the counter and dashed after his partner.

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The End!


End file.
